


Dinner For Two

by eilonwy



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Co-workers, F/M, Fluff, Friendship/Love, HP: EWE, Humor, Romance, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-12
Updated: 2017-03-13
Packaged: 2018-10-03 13:57:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10247915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eilonwy/pseuds/eilonwy
Summary: Annoyingly, Draco's dinner plans go unexpectedly awry.  The aftermath is unexpected as well, but definitely interesting.





	1. Draco

19 June 2008  
Thursday evening

 

It really shouldn’t have happened. Considering how reputable the establishment was, how very many illustrious citizens had dined there and raved about it, the service should at the very least have met basic standards for excellence. There was no excuse for a booking error such as the one Draco Malfoy was currently being forced to deal with.

“What do you mean, you have no table for me? I booked a full week ago! This is absolutely inexcusable. You shan’t have my custom in future, I can assure you of that! Nor that of my friends!” he told the manager heatedly. 

And with that, Draco turned on his heel and strode out of the restaurant, leaving the flustered manager to stare helplessly at his retreating back, dress cloak flaring behind him, as he exited the premises. Inwardly, Pierre groaned. That was a lot of potential business down the proverbial drain. He could just imagine the many Galleon signs flashing before his eyes as they got sucked down the loo for good. 

Draco, in the meantime, found himself on the pavement in front of Le Cygne D’Or, newest and trendiest French restaurant in Diagon Alley, all dressed up and with no idea of where to go for his dinner.

“Wait, wait, Monsieur Malfoy!” Twenty seconds had passed before Pierre, galvanized into action by those visions of disappearing Galleons, sprinted after the younger man. Fortunately, Draco was still deciding what he wanted to do and hadn’t left. 

“ _Mes dieux!_ I am so glad you are still here!” Pierre took a much needed breath and attempted to calm himself. He smiled ingratiatingly at Draco. “Please accept my profound apologies. Your good opinion is most important to us and we value it highly. Won’t you come back inside? We should have a table for you shortly. Your dinner and drinks will be _sur la maison._ On the house.” 

“Yes, thanks, I know what it means,” Draco said impatiently, his tone clipped. He paused to consider. That did seem like a decent enough offer, one the restaurant was not required to make, though it was certainly the very least they could do. “All right, then. I’ll just have a drink at the bar whilst I wait, shall I?”

Pierre’s face was instantaneously transformed. A wide smile of joy and relief creased his cheeks. This was one customer whose business, and the business of anyone associated with him, he did not want to forfeit. One did not voluntarily make an enemy of anyone whose surname was Malfoy. Even ten years after the war, the name carried a good deal of weight in the wizarding community at large and even more so in pure-blood echelons.

Lounging at the recessed bar, its highly polished mahogany gleaming in the candlelight, Draco surveyed the dining room with casual curiosity. Who was dining tonight and with whom? He supposed that others might look at him and wonder the same thing. Dining alone was, in fact, something he did often and with quiet pleasure. He usually found that his own company was far superior to that of anyone with whom he might be dining. Moreover, his day was often fraught with stress that was the direct product of his position at the Ministry, where he worked in the Public Relations office. Seven years of writing and then disseminating highly polished bullshit had left him mentally weary and preferring to talk to as few people as possible once the working day was done. Time alone was time in which he could really unwind.

Three years of marriage to Astoria Greengrass had done damage as well. Thank the gods he was now well out of that trap, at least. The four years since the divorce had gone a long way toward healing the wounds. But the experience had left him wary and cautious, far more choosy – less in need of frequent female company and more in need of the _right_ female company, his mother often remarked. She had a ready list of socially acceptable young women, if only he would consider any of them. But he’d shown no interest. In four years of highly eligible bachelorhood, only one woman had even begun to catch his eye for more than five minutes. And she was about as likely to go out with him as he was to sprout wings.

Draco let out a small sigh and turned back to his drink. “Another please,” he murmured to the bartender, who nodded and set about mixing the drink immediately. In a moment the fresh drink was set down before Draco, who took a healthy swallow and then glanced at his watch. It had been fifteen minutes. When would his table be ready? His patience was beginning to wear thin once again. Five minutes more and he would be out of there, never to return.

Another swallow of his drink, and, bored, he cast his gaze about the room once again. Surely there was something or someone who could entertain him while he waited, someone he knew, anything. The cream of the wizarding community was here every night, and many faces were regulars. He already recognised those who were cheating on their spouses or significant others. No fun in that anymore. Likewise, those who were grossly overeating and likely to explode. Their lack of self-control always fascinated and disgusted him, so that he couldn’t look away. Morbidly, he wondered if any of them might drop dead right at the table, either from choking or a heart attack. Images of Floating Island or rivers of rich Hollandaise sauce flooding a gluttonous patron’s arteries came to mind. 

And then he spotted something that nearly made him choke on his drink. Some _one_ , to be more precise.

Across the room, partially obscured by the foliage of a large, potted palm, was Ministry PR colleague Hermione Granger, and damned if she didn’t look bloody gorgeous. At work, she usually wore her hair pulled back into a messy bun, but now it was a corona of soft, golden-brown waves falling loosely to just below her shoulders. Said shoulders were bare, slender, and very pale, the bodice of her strapless, royal-blue cocktail dress fitting like a second skin. Small crystal earrings sparkled at her earlobes, catching the candlelight and reflecting it, a slim, matching tennis bracelet at her wrist. Hands folded on the snowy tablecloth, a glass of wine before her essentially untouched, she sat quietly, hardly moving except for the occasional glance at her wristwatch. Beyond that, her expression was impassive, but Draco noted that as he watched, two spots of colour appeared high on her cheeks. 

He glanced at his own watch. Eight o’clock. His own reservation had been for half seven. By rights, he should be out the door at this point. But this was an opportunity he could not pass up. She’d been on his radar for some time now – a distracting whiff of her perfume as she passed him in the office, long, dark eyelashes brushing the soft curve of her cheek as she bent close to go over some paperwork with him, the sprinkling of pale freckles on her nose and cheeks that had grown oddly endearing, the way errant tendrils of hair would often escape the bun and curl about the nape of her neck – but for reasons that made complete sense at the time, he’d chosen not to act. Lay odds on when (or indeed if) Hermione Granger would ever in this lifetime or the next go out with Draco Malfoy, and the bet would be a real long shot. Still, he’d watched appreciatively, keeping his distance, because he couldn’t not watch her. And now, here she was, right in his sights and not in work mode, looking utterly breathtaking, and best of all, alone.

Was she waiting for a date who was late? Or was she here on her own? It didn’t even matter. In point of fact, she was alone, at least for now, and so was he. This moment in time was a gift that had literally dropped into his lap, and he’d be a fool not to make the most of it. The mountain had just come to Mohammed.

With casual grace, he picked up his drink and sauntered over in her general direction, making sure to take note of her presence only at the last possible minute.

“Granger! Well, well. What are _you_ doing here?” he exclaimed, affecting surprise.

She turned her gaze in his direction and pursed her lips in obvious annoyance. “What in Merlin’s name do you _think_ I’m doing here, Malfoy? Sitting here keeping the seat warm for the sake of my health? Do you suppose I don’t frequent nice restaurants like this? Am I not good enough to dine here?”

Oh gods. Bad start. Need to back up and try again.

“No, no,” he replied hastily. “I didn’t mean that, not at all. No, it’s just… well… you’re on your own, or so it would appear…”

He allowed that sentence to trail off into oblivion, hoping she would explain the circumstances before he made an even bigger idiot out of himself.

“Oh, and can’t women dine out alone, then? Or is that a man’s province as well?” she asked sharply, her ire clearly rising.

Shit. This was going south really fast. Quickly, he summoned what remained of his charm and tried a third time.

“Of course they can. I’ll just leave you to it then, shall I?” Maybe a bit of reverse psychology might do the trick. Back off and give her some space and maybe she’d stop looking daggers at him.

Hermione huffed, folding her arms and lifting her chin. She remained that way for fully ten seconds, watching Draco slowly move off out of the corner of her eye. Then she cleared her throat and gave him a faint, sheepish smile. “Malfoy, wait. Come back. That was rude of me. I’m sorry. It’s just… well… I’m supposed to be meeting somebody here, and he’s quite late. I’m sure there’s a very good reason…”

Ah, blind dates. Draco suppressed a wry smile. He’d had his share of those, and virtually always, they were disastrous.

“It’s put me in a really foul mood, to be honest,” she went on. “I can’t abide lateness like this. It’s such bad manners. And this is supposed to be someone I’d really like, according to my so-called ‘friends.’” She laughed ruefully and took a sip of her wine. “Last blind date I am ever going on, full stop, if he doesn’t show. I don’t care what they say.”

This was the moment, make or break. He’d either grab it or walk away and likely never have another golden chance like this again.

“Mind if I join you for a bit? They cocked up my booking and I’ve been waiting for a table for half an hour. I was just about to leave when I happened to see you,” he explained, edging closer to the chair opposite her.

Hermione hesitated for the barest fraction of a second before nodding her head and sighing. “Yes, all right, why not? I’m not going anywhere. Not yet, at least. You’ve rescued me, actually. Do you know what it’s like to sit alone in a public place for a solid hour, all dressed up and just waiting? So embarrassing!”

Brilliant. Draco could hardly contain his glee. This bloke was evidently a wanker of the first order. His loss might just be Draco’s gain if he played his cards right. He shook his head empathetically. “Unfortunately, I do, yes. Then, there are the dates you wish hadn’t shown up at all.” 

The two of them laughed at that, and with that, the ice had a fair-sized crack in it. In an instant, the room seemed to warm up a degree or two and Draco felt himself begin to relax in his chair. Across the table, Hermione was actually smiling at him; true, it was a small, tentative smile still, but a smile nevertheless. His next question was now possible.

“Look, I had planned to have dinner alone, but… what about the two of us having dinner together instead? I find that I’d rather have company tonight after all, and… well, you’re here, so…”

A sudden chill seemed to descend on the table once again. Hermione’s brows drew down in a frown. “How convenient. I just happen to be here, so why not, right? Better me than nobody? One warm body is as good as another? I’m not a consolation prize, Malfoy. You needn’t take pity on me.”

Holy shit. She didn’t make it easy. The girl had some major trust issues, it would seem. Then again, considering he was the warm body she was talking to, perhaps her caution and lack of trust were not misplaced. Perhaps they were even entirely warranted. ‘Say something positive,’ he told himself. ‘Don’t cock this up!’

“No, not at all,” he reassured her. “I’d quite like to have dinner with you. We see each other at work, of course, but we really haven’t talked much over the years, have we. We really hardly know each other now. Let’s have dinner, and if your date does show up at some point, well… you can deal with him then. What do you say?”

For a moment or two, Hermione appeared to be mulling the whole thing over; cocking her head to one side, she regarded him curiously and with some scepticism. Finally, she smiled, and this time, it was more than tentative. It seemed warmer, more genuine.

“Yes, all right. That would be… interesting,” she finished, laughing a little bit. “I was about to say ‘nice,’ but I don’t know – _are_ you nice now? You’re right; we really don’t know each other anymore. You seem rather distant at work most of the time.” She paused, one eyebrow cocked and the beginnings of a sly smile nudging the corners of her mouth. “Are you nicer than the Malfoy I remember from school?”

“Oh yes,” he told her gravely, keeping back a grin. “I am considerably nicer than he was. Mothers, fathers, and small dogs love me. I am at the top of every eligible-bachelor list in the country.”

Hermione sat back in her chair and regarded him with a mixture of amusement and curiosity. “Actually, I did wonder about that. You’re obviously single now, but… you were married at some point, weren’t you?”

He nodded heavily. “Yes. To Astoria Greengrass, as I suppose you already know. Thank all the gods I got out of it when I did. Only went through with it in the first place to please my parents. I was just twenty-one at the time. What the hell did I know? I did as I was told, for the good of the family name. Biggest mistake I ever made.”

“Why?” Hermione asked softly. “What happened?”

He sighed deeply. “Complete incompatibility. It was a disaster from day one. We didn’t know how to talk to each other. We didn't even _want_ to talk to each other, really. I don’t even think she liked me. I definitely didn’t like her. Basically, she was a scared little mouse. She had nothing to offer me up here,” he went on, tapping his temple. “She didn’t read, she didn’t have a clue about what was going on in the world… All she wanted to do was go shopping and spend my money. She actively avoided me a lot of the time, but that was fine because I could barely stand being in the same room with her. Somehow, we managed to conceive a child, though it was strictly duty, not remotely out of love.” 

“Scorpius. I remember reading that somewhere.”

Draco nodded once again. “Yes. As soon as he was born, the marriage was over as far as I was concerned. I’d done my bit in providing an heir, and I’d had it with her and the charade that our marriage really was. My parents arrived at a settlement with hers, and believe me, she was only too happy to leave. She’d never wanted Scorpius anyway. I’ve got sole custody. He’s four years old now. Great kid.”

Hermione fell silent for a moment, and suddenly, Draco felt a frisson of alarm. Should he have mentioned Scorpius? Maybe he shouldn’t have done, not so soon. Women didn’t always want to hear about your kid the moment you began getting to know each other. Not that Scorpius should ever be a secret, he reasoned with himself, but it could be a bit off-putting to know that there’s a kid in the picture right from the off.

And then Hermione smiled, her expression dreamy. “I love kids, you know,” she confided. “Harry and Ginny have got two now, and I’m asked to mind them now and then. Are you and Scorpius close?”

Relieved, Draco let out a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding. “Oh yeah, very. He’s my little shadow. Books and cleverness, that’s him, and fearless as well. He’s already asking me to teach him to fly.”

“Not yet, surely!” Hermione looked horrified, her eyes suddenly very large.

Now Draco laughed out loud. “You sound like my mother! She’s always fussing and hovering over him. No worries, Granger. Flying comes later. Besides, I don’t fancy the notion of my son flying rings round me by the time he’s ten. I wouldn’t be surprised. He’s going to be really good, I can already tell.”

“So were you, if memory serves,” Hermione remarked, and then blushed. Quickly, she added, “Still fly much?”

Her comment elicited a pleased grin from Draco. “Only every chance I get. It’s the best escape I know, being up there on my broom. And I’ll play some pick-up Quidditch now and then, if there’s a match going.”

She nodded. Harry and Ron did the same; no doubt they had crossed paths on more than one occasion on a Saturday afternoon.

Just then, the waiter arrived. 

“May I interest Mademoiselle and Monsieur in something delightful to drink on this beautiful evening?” he asked, with a flourish and a twirl of his moustache.

Biting her lip to keep from laughing, Hermione dove behind her menu, peeking over the top at Draco, who had managed to swallow his own mirth just long enough to order a bottle of vintage Veuve Clicquot.

“My favourite! How did you know?” she asked, once the waiter had gone and she emerged, pink-faced and still laughing.

Draco shrugged, smiling. “Lucky guess, I reckon.” 

Of course, it was no such thing, but instead, the product of a bit of research he’d done a while back. She’d intrigued him from the very first day she arrived in the Public Relations department of the Ministry two years earlier. By then, their time at Hogwarts and the war were years behind them. Who was she now? What activities did she enjoy? How did she spend her time? What foods did she like? What was her favourite wine? It had been two years of quiet, keen observation and research ever since, all of it common knowledge to those who were her friends. He wasn’t, exactly, but he had hopes. One day, he’d told himself, some small tidbit of information would come in useful. And now, it had.

A moment later, the manager materialised at their table, looking worried. He bent slightly to speak into Draco’s ear. “Monsieur Malfoy, I am pleased that you discovered an acquaintance with whom to pass the very short time you have waited. However, we do have a table for you now, and it is one of the best in the house. Again, please accept my most sincere apology for the delay. If you would care to follow me…”

He straightened and grandly swept an arm to one side in the general direction of choice tables generally reserved for VIP guests.

“Thank you, Pierre, but I believe I shall have dinner here,” Draco replied, with his most ingratiating smile. “I appreciate the efforts you went to on my behalf. However, the company of a beautiful woman is always preferable to dining alone, _n’est-ce pas_?” 

“ _Mais oui._ But of course!” Pierre gave a conspiratorial little wink and a chuckle and nodded. “Order whatever you like, Monsieur Malfoy. It will be our pleasure to serve you. _Bon appétit!_ ”

After he’d gone, Hermione looked at Draco, eyebrows raised in some surprise. “Merlin,” she said, laughing. “Is he always like that?”

Draco gave her a crooked grin. “Only, I suspect, when he sees a lot of potential profit vanishing right before his eyes. I threatened to take my business elsewhere because the service was so poor. And that included everyone I know.”

“A considerable amount of potential profit, I assume.”

“Oh yes.” Leaning back, he rested an arm comfortably on the back of his chair. “Lots and lots of little Galleons up in smoke. This place hasn’t been open all that long, you know. It’s done very well up to now, mainly because of clients like me.”

“If you do say so yourself,” Hermione interjected tartly, though she was still smiling. 

“But if any one of their regular customers pulled his or her business and went elsewhere, this place would suffer. A lot of important clients would likely go along with them. That could well be the end of Le Cygne D’Or.”

Hermione nodded, looking down at her hands folded in her lap. When she raised her eyes to his again, she was blushing. 

“The other thing you said… about dining with a beautiful woman being preferable to dining alone…” she began tentatively.

“What about it?” Affecting a nonchalant attitude, he waited.

“Well, did you… that is…” She was becoming flustered now, and ever more embarrassed.

Clearly, she had no idea how gorgeous she really was. Either that or she was modest to a fault, or possibly fishing for compliments. Draco decided he’d bet on the first two in a heartbeat. 

“Did I mean it?” Leaning forward now, he looked her in the eye and held her gaze. “I never say anything I don’t mean, Granger.”

Their eyes remained locked for what felt like an age. For a long moment, it seemed to Draco as if she had stopped breathing altogether before abruptly collecting herself once again.

“Well, thank you. I’m… flattered,” she murmured at last, clearly still embarrassed. 

And shocked as all hell probably, given that the compliment came from me, but pleased, too, Draco decided happily. In fact, if he was any judge of women at all – and he deemed himself an excellent one – Hermione Granger had been secretly thrilled by his comment. 

“My pleasure. You really do look wonderful tonight, by the way. And now,” he said briskly, instinct telling him that it would be better to keep a light touch and not belabour the moment, “what do you fancy for starters?”

*

Dinner had turned out to be quite possibly the most sumptuous meal Hermione had ever had. Even for Draco, that wasn’t far off the mark. Their waiter, Michel, seemed to have made it his mission to fete the couple with as many courses as it’s possible for a human being to consume without instant heart failure. The irony of that wasn’t lost on Draco; he realised that to anyone observing them, he’d now joined the ranks of the greedy and overstuffed. But at the moment, he really didn’t care. This meal with Hermione was the best time he’d had in years.

For one thing, there was the almost childlike delight she took in everything they tried. Not being a regular patron, she had immediately deferred to his judgement in choosing from the menu; in turn, introducing her to so many exotic and expensive dishes he’d grown up with and took for granted made him feel quite the worldly connoisseur. 

But it was also the way she’d relaxed with him. It hadn’t taken very long before her smiles became more and more spontaneous, her laughter (delightful!) a frequent coda to their conversation. Merlin’s beard, she actually thought he was _funny_. And witty, and smart as well, judging by the responses his comments were eliciting from her. Their conversation, once it got going, had been enjoyable and satisfying, but most striking of all, it had felt entirely natural, never forced or awkward. This amazed him.

At last, it came time for an after-dinner sweet of some sort. The three-hour meal was finally winding down, which was probably a good thing, considering how completely stuffed both of them were by this time.

Michel appeared once again at Draco’s elbow just as he was thinking about how good a cup of coffee would be right about now. 

“Coffee, Monsieur and Mademoiselle? A _digestif_ , perhaps? I can recommend several superb ones. And our pudding trolley has many exquisite offerings tonight.”

Hermione groaned and laid a hand on her mid-section. “Oh gods, I don’t know if I’ve room for one more bite after that incredible meal!”

Draco grinned and nodded. “Agreed. But just for the hell of it, and because one really shouldn’t end such a spectacular meal without the proper conclusion, I’ll order us a couple of small liqueurs and we’ll choose something from the pudding trolley. Oh, and coffee. Espresso for me,” he told the waiter, “and…?”

He looked across the table at Hermione. 

“Cappuccino, please,” she replied. “It’s mostly froth anyway. I think I can manage that.”

“And the liqueurs? What can I bring you?” Michel asked.

Again, Draco glanced at Hermione questioningly.

“Well,” she said, smiling that shy little smile of hers that he’d grown rather fond of in the last three hours, “I do quite like Grand Marnier.”

“Right. Two Grand Marniers, if you please. And send the pudding trolley over. It won’t hurt to have a look.” 

Ten minutes later, everything arrived, including the sweet they’d chosen. 

“Please let’s share, all right?” Hermione had entreated him. “I’m already about to burst.”

He’d agreed. And now, before them on the snowy table cloth were one espresso, one cappuccino, two small, elegant goblets of Grand Marnier, and a plate containing a pair of _Profiteroles au Chocolat_ , delicate cream puffs swimming in a river of rich, dark-chocolate sauce.

“Goodness,” she sighed. “This whole meal is beyond decadent! Surely you don’t eat this way on a regular basis, Malfoy. You look so fit!”

And then, for the second time that evening, a rather pretty blush overtook her and she glanced away, flustered with the candour of her own words.

Needless to say, such candour was yet again a very pleasant surprise to her dining partner. A small kernel of hope had been growing all evening. Maybe, just maybe, there was a chance for him after all. 

Now he laughed. “No, I definitely don’t. You’re right. I’d look like Greg Goyle, or rather, the way he looked when we were at school. He’s lost a lot of weight since.”

“It’s been ten years. Can you believe it?” she asked softly, taking a sip of her coffee.

“Sometimes,” he mused, “it feels far longer to me. More like a lifetime ago. That kid… the person I was back then… well, that isn’t me anymore. I mean to say… I believe I’ve grown up since then. And I’ve come to certain conclusions on my own about, well, a lot of things.”

“Like what?” Hermione was gazing at him intently, and suddenly, everything seemed to have gone very quiet. 

He’d known there was a good chance this moment would come, as soon as he spotted her here. And frankly, it was a relief. It had been ten years of rethinking everything he’d ever believed and been schooled to trust. He’d wanted the opportunity to say certain things to her for a long time, but that chance had never presented itself in just the right way. Now – in this moment – it had finally arrived. If he didn’t tell her now, he probably never would.

“Like what I’d always been taught to believe about the importance of blood purity. It’s all bollocks, isn’t it. And then, too, how that carries into beliefs about half-bloods and Muggle-borns, and their worthiness as members of our community. Look, Hermione,” he said rather insistently, not even aware he’d just used her first name, “I’m sorry. For all of it. I was beastly to you for so long.”

“Years,” she murmured.

“Years, yes. And you didn’t deserve any of it. What an arse I was. Total wanker.”

“That’s being kind.”

She wasn’t pulling any punches, now that The Subject was out in the open. But he didn’t deserve to be let off the hook easily.

Flushing slightly, he looked down at his lap and then up at her, unflinching. “That’s true. I was a rotten kid, a bully and an entitled little shit. You weren’t the only one I picked on, but you were probably the one who got the worst of it.”

“Why?” Her eyes had grown very large and dark. “Why me?”

“Because you were a living repudiation of everything I’d been taught. You were a Muggle-born, and yet you were one of the smartest, most magically gifted people at school. I couldn’t stand that. It was like a slap in the face. For my father, too. Believe me, he never let me hear the end of it. Every damned time he got wind of you besting me in one class or another, there would be an owl from him.”

Draco paused, gathering himself. Now that he’d begun, the feelings and memories were pouring out of him like a toxic river. 

“And you were so bloody eager all the time. Merlin, it made me want to hit you. You made the rest of us look bad. Me. You made _me_ look bad. I just wanted to shut you up any way I could. Stupid, I know, and totally unfair, but every time you raised your hand and got the answer right, I felt smaller. Invisible. And powerless. I couldn’t have that. Making your life a misery made me happy, pathetic as that sounds.”

That was an awful lot to digest all at once. Hermione was looking rather pale suddenly. She reached for her digestif and took a small, bracing sip. “Oh,” she said finally. “I’m sorry. For making you feel small. I never meant…”

He held up a hand immediately.

“Fuck’s sake, Granger, don’t _you_ apologise! That’s what I’m trying to do. You don’t owe me any sort of apology! It’s me – _I’m_ the one. You’ve got to understand how sorry I really am. For everything. Can you forgive me?”

The ten seconds he waited for an answer seemed like eons. Watching her face closely, he tried to detect what she might be feeling and thinking. Hopes he’d nurtured for two years hung on her answer.

At last, she looked at him, her face clearing and with just a hint of a very small smile, and offered her hand across the table. “Yes. I can now. Thank you for everything you said, Draco.”

Relief filled him and he took her hand, giving it a quick squeeze. She smiled back tremulously, her hand remaining in his for a few seconds more before she made a gentle attempt to withdraw it. 

Draco was loath to let her hand go. It felt so nice in his, warm and soft and so small. And her palm was comfortably dry. He hated clammy or sweaty palms, especially in women he’d otherwise found attractive. It was always a turn-off to find that their hands were damp. Not Hermione’s.

“Malfoy…” she began, laughing and tilting her head towards their hands, still clasped. “I’ll be needing that back, I think.”

“What? Oh! Yes. ’Course. Sorry!” Immediately, he released her hand and busied himself spooning up a bit of the profiterole, motioning to her to join him. Despite their certainty that no room whatsoever was left for even one more bite of food, both of them managed, somehow, to find room for this luscious confection. The cream puff’s shell was light and flaky, the bean-flecked vanilla ice cream inside incredibly rich, and the chocolate sauce completely decadent. It put the finishing touch on the meal, its sweet, cold creaminess the perfect counterpoint to the buttery pecan and brown sugar-encrusted baked salmon they’d had earlier.

Trying not to be too obvious, Draco watched Hermione as she ate, enjoying her pleasure in every bite. At one point, she acquired a creamy moustache and he grinned, pointing to his own upper lip. With a light laugh and a roll of her eyes, she licked the ice cream residue off, the tip of her small, pink tongue flicking out to clean every errant drop. 

That tongue. He was mesmerised. When she caught him staring, he smiled a bit sheepishly, hoping at first that she wouldn’t realise what he’d been thinking. Or maybe, on second thought, that she would.

Eventually, he raised his liqueur glass.

“We didn’t make a toast earlier, with the wine. I’d like to make one now.” 

She nodded and he continued. 

“To…” And then he stopped, finding himself stumped. What to drink to? There were so many things he was wishing and hoping for in his life, not least of which was that tonight would lead to another night, and another after that.

“Possibilities,” she piped up, raising her own glass. “What about that?”

Possibilities. He liked that. It allowed for so many roads one could travel, so many ways to reach goals, and most important of all, that those goals were not merely impossible phantasms haunting his quieter moments or dreams. 

“Right, then. To possibilities!” He clinked his glass against hers and both of them took a healthy sip of their after-dinner drinks.

*

The evening had been long and leisurely, but eventually, it had to come to an end. By midnight, Draco and Hermione were virtually the only patrons left in the restaurant, and the waiters had begun to Vanish the remaining dirty dishes and glassware away from the vacated tables.

The sudden awareness that they were nearly alone came as a surprise. The conversation had been as thoroughly engrossing after the toast as before, one round of coffee turning into a second, the discovery of several common interests fueling the exchange of ideas and sharing of experiences. Both loved to travel, for one thing, and Draco had regaled Hermione with stories of travels with his parents as a boy and the experiences abroad he’d had in more recent years. They were as different to Hermione’s travel experiences as they could possibly be, and then it was her turn to describe her own adventures, which she did in vivid, humorous detail. 

Magic itself had proven yet another area of common ground, not surprisingly. Here, the conversation had turned technical fairly quickly, and once again, Hermione’s sharp intelligence asserted itself. But this time, for Draco, there had been no jealousy – no threat and nothing to prove. Instead, he’d found genuine pleasure in engaging with someone as keen and proficient as he was. 

Now Draco glanced at his watch and grinned. “Reckon they’re about ready to boot us out.”

She nodded with a small, contented sigh. “Suppose we ought to go, then.”

She stood, shrugging into her cloak.

“Thank you, Draco,” she said, holding out her hand. And there was that endearingly shy smile again. “I had a wonderful time. Goodnight.” 

“Hang on,” he interjected. “I’ll just see you home, shall I?”

“Really not necessary, Malfoy. I’m a big girl, you know!” She laughed, rolling her eyes half in mild exasperation and half in amusement. “And besides, I was planning to Apparate. No risk.”

“Not true! Somebody could be lurking right near your Apparition point. You never know. You really ought to have somebody with you, just to be on the safe side. Two wands are better than one.”

At that point, Hermione flashed him a pleased little smile of acquiescence, and he knew he’d won. And he knew something else besides. Secretly, she _wanted_ him to accompany her. It was written all over her face. Now he’d have a chance to draw the evening out just a little bit more. And just maybe, he’d have another sort of chance as well, if all the stars and planets were aligned in his favour.

“Right, then, let’s go. Ready?” he asked, taking her arm and tucking it securely into his.

She nodded, her eyes never leaving his, and in the next moment, they melted into the ether.

*

The very fact of the note was surprising. The manager shook his head in amazement, a smile spreading slowly over his face. Brief but expressive, the small section of parchment had arrived earlier that morning, as the restaurant was being set up for that day’s business. A large eagle owl had landed on the casement outside the large picture window, tapping on the glass impatiently. It had flapped its massive wings several times, eager to be on its way once again, and grumpily held out its foot for Pierre to remove the scrolled note from its holder. A quick pat on the head and a meaty little treat, and the eagle owl was off again, no reply required.

 

_”Dear Pierre,”_ the note read. _”Thank you for a delightful evening at Le Cygne d’Or. I am most grateful for the superb service and hospitality. You may be surprised to learn that in retrospect, I am very pleased about the booking error. It turned out to be a most fortuitous mistake._

_Please accept the enclosed token of my thanks for that, and for making sure that a certain party would not find his way to Ms. Granger’s table if he happened to turn up. It is not necessary for me to know if, in fact, he ever did._

_Cordially,_

_Draco Malfoy_

 

The small, wrapped parcel within the note had fallen to the table when Pierre opened the parchment. Pulling the string, he unwrapped the parcel now and looked inside. 

There, he found sixteen shiny, new Galleons.


	2. Hermione

6 June 2008  
Friday

 

Dear Diary,

Exciting news! 

Something came in the owl post today that I suppose I’d been expecting for some time. And yet, it still came as a small shock, somehow. Pansy Parkinson has got engaged. It’s official now. She and Ron are getting married (finally!) next May. And no great surprise, she’s asked me to be one of her bridesmaids.

I said that I’m excited. I am, though not entirely, if I’m honest – more like ambivalent, really. It’s not that I care that Ron’s getting married. They’ve been together for absolute ages, and the truth is, I’ve been over him for way longer than that. And they’re great together. Ron and I were a disaster, and I’m glad and very relieved that I figured that out in time. So yes, I’m thrilled for the two of them, truly I am. And honestly, it’s about time. Ron really dragged his feet on this. And I know Pansy wondered if it would ever happen. I’m happy it finally did. And yet… I can’t help wondering when it will be my turn. I have to believe it’ll happen for me someday. It just has to. I’m tired of being passed over like damaged goods. I don’t want to be the last woman standing!

Note to self: Stop whinging, Hermione. It’s not very becoming. I refuse to be bummed out by yet another wedding that isn’t mine.

I can’t believe this will be my eighth time as a bridesmaid (and let’s not forget my stint as Ginny’s maid of honour). My wardrobe is positively stuffed with big gowns in garment bags. No complaints, of course. They’re beautiful in their own way. I don’t begrudge any of my friends or cousins their taste. And being in all those bridal parties has been a labour of love, truly. Someday, I’m sure they’ll all be there for me as well. Of course they will.

And so it begins. 

 

9 June  
Monday

 

Famous last words. It’s begun all right. I heard today that the Parkinsons will be throwing a huge engagement party in a couple of months. And then, of course, the Big One: the hen party. Though knowing Pansy, she will want a whole weekend, not just an evening. All of us bridesmaids will be in on that one. And it’ll have to be bigger, grander, more lavish, and more outrageous than anyone’s hen party has ever been before. I’ve already begun making some notes. (If I don’t, nobody else will.)

First, though: the frock. Apparently, whilst Pansy was waiting around for Ron to get off his arse and propose, she wasn’t wasting any time. She was SHOPPING. The second she had that ring, she already knew which frock she wanted all of us to wear, and the maid and matron of honour’s gowns as well. So the first order of business: go and try it on and have my measurements taken. I’ll go after work one day this week, I think. The new formalwear shop is right near Madam Malkin’s. 

Note to self: skip afternoon tea that day. Maybe skip lunch as well. Must be my absolute thinnest.

 

12 June  
Thursday

Oh Merlin. It’s PUCE. And I don’t mean anything remotely attractive. I mean the colour of dried blood or old wine stains. Purplish, reddish brown. THAT puce. I looked like a corpse in that gown, I swear! How the hell could she have chosen such a revolting colour? It’s not even as if she’s having a winter wedding. What on earth was she thinking?

I detect the hand of Pansy’s mother in all this! She always did have the worst taste. I dread to imagine what the rest of the wedding is going to look like! 

Note to self: have a talk with Pansy and try to help her regain her sanity! 

 

15 June  
Sunday afternoon

Couldn’t shift Pansy on the gown colour. So we’re stuck with that hideous puce. Yuck. 

 

19 June  
Thursday, 6 PM

She says the colour is “elegant” and “slimming.” Everyone else hates it. At least we’ll all look dreadful together in one massive, puce lump. Ginny thinks that Pansy’s doing it to make herself look even better by comparison, as the bride. That sounds rather mean to me. But who knows? Maybe Ginny’s on to something. Whatever the reason, it is what it is. I’ll just have to dress it up with some amazing jewellery. At least the gown itself isn’t too awful.

Meanwhile, lucky me, I’ve got a blind date tonight for dinner. Some bloke that Lav knows from her job. Peter, his name is. She says he’s really hot, but nice as well. I’m not so sure about this, to be honest. Too many bad experiences, too many disappointments. I’m growing really tired of putting myself out there and dealing with wankers and egotistical, brainless idiots, time after time. *Sigh* Well, one last time, anyway. Just to please Lav.

I’ll keep this short, as I’ve got to get ready soon. I’m meeting him at that pricey, new French restaurant, Le Cygne d’Or. If nothing else, I’ll get a good meal out of it, at least.

Must dash. More later.

 

1 AM

 

Back! And oh gods, where to begin? I can’t even think straight at the moment! (Calm down and breathe, Hermione!) 

I’m just home from the most amazing and unexpected evening. I got to the restaurant bang on time, at precisely seven. Wore my beautiful blue strapless with the fitted bodice and pencil skirt. I had my hair down, because for once, it actually turned out perfectly, with waves and soft curls instead of masses of frizz. I felt really good, really put together. I was all ready for this Peter bloke to get there and to have a really nice meal and some good conversation. He would be handsome and charming, well spoken and polite, and best of all, he would be interesting. 

So yes, I got there right on time and was seated fairly quickly, considering how busy the restaurant was. It’s a beautiful place, very sleek and minimalist, but comfortable too. Lots of interesting avant-garde art on the walls. Rather like dining in a museum. That was fun. So much to look at whilst I waited.

And waited. I sat there, feeling more and more conspicuous as the minutes passed. Surely everyone was looking at me with increasing pity. By half seven, Peter still wasn’t there. By a quarter to eight, I was still alone. By eight o’clock, I was positively mortified. I remember looking at my watch and deciding that if he didn’t show by 8:15, I would simply leave. I was so embarrassed by that time that I couldn’t even bring myself to look around the dining room. I just stared down at my hands.

And then, quite suddenly, someone was speaking to me. Here’s where it gets bizarre. It was Draco Malfoy, of all people! And he was being perfectly cordial. I nearly fell off my chair!

In all honesty, I can’t say that I was equally friendly. In fact, I was rather rude to him. Old habits die hard, and I don’t know, I suppose I was already feeling a bit edgy and upset at being kept waiting for so long. Defensive too. When he asked if he could join me, seeing as we were both alone, I was sure he must be thinking, “How pathetic. Granger’s been ditched.” Because, of course, it was Malfoy. And when has Draco Malfoy ever had a kind thought or word for anyone, least of all me? 

To be fair, in the two years we’ve worked together, he’s been okay, polite enough in a distant sort of way. I’ve caught him looking at me every once in a while, studying me, and it’s always seemed slightly creepy. But he really hasn’t had a lot to say. Until tonight, that is.

Anyway, despite my rudeness, he never was. Not one cross word. No sarcasm, nothing. He really seemed sincere about wanting to have dinner with me, so eventually, I gave in and said he could sit down. At that point, I had nothing to lose, and it was rather nice to have a good-looking man sitting opposite me instead of an empty chair. Because he really is exceptionally attractive, and I’ll admit, I have noticed. Every female in the Ministry has. You’d have to be blind not to.

After that, well… First things first. Obviously, he eats at Le Cygne d’Or fairly often, because he knew the menu very well. He ordered for both of us and oh gods, the FOOD. It was positively orgasmic. 

Our dinner (all of which, incredibly, was on the house, apparently because the manager messed up Malfoy’s dinner reservation):

Wild-caught salmon in a butter-brown sugar glaze with pecans  
Twice-baked jacket potatoes au gratin  
Roasted vegetables  
A bottle of very good champagne (Veuve Cliquot! Yum!)  
Grand Marnier afterwards  
Cappuccino (he had espresso)  
Profiteroles au chocolat (delectable cream puffs in a dark-chocolate sauce. TO DIE FOR.)

 

We sat there for four hours. FOUR HOURS. I am still amazed, thinking about it! By the time we left at midnight, we were the last customers there. But the time had passed so quickly, because we’d just never stopped talking. Malfoy was charming and witty. Funny, too. He is a quite brilliant conversationalist, as it turns out. And we had so much to talk about. I would never have expected that, but it was true. We talked about everything. Seriously. Even about his ex-wife and his little boy. I think my favourite bit, though, was when we shared ideas on magic – how we feel about having it, how we enjoy using it most, what areas we feel especially adept in, its history. He even wanted to know how it had been for me, when I first understood, as a child, that I had magic. That really struck me. He was genuinely curious about what the experience had been like for me as a Muggle-born. 

And Merlin, he actually apologised. I mean for being so rotten to me all through school. And he told me how he used to feel about me, why he’d hated me so much. That was rather hard to hear, but actually, I kind of get it, now that I understand what his frame of mind was all those years ago. He also told me he’s disavowed all the pure-blood rubbish he’d been taught. I find that I feel strangely glad he no longer believes any of that. 

Phew! This entry is getting ridiculously long and my fingers are starting to cramp! And I haven’t even got to the best bit. He insisted on taking me home (unexpectedly chivalrous), so we Apparated together to the front door. And that was where I had the hottest almost-kiss imaginable. We said goodnight, and I swear, he looked at me as if he didn’t want to let me out of his sight. Then he asked if he might take me out again sometime. Of course, I said yes. Because honestly, I’d had the BEST TIME EVER on a date. And this wasn’t even a date, not officially anyway. Then he leaned down, and I closed my eyes and held my breath. I could smell his cologne (a bit spicy but not overpowering, just very clean and masculine), and I could feel him quite close. He said goodnight again, very softly this time, and I think I felt his lips brush the corner of my mouth, but it was all so quick and light that I’m not absolutely sure.

When I opened my eyes, he was gone. That was half an hour ago. I doubt I’ll be sleeping much tonight. Such a lot to think about! My head is spinning! 

Oh! I wonder if Malfoy will be in the wedding party? He’ll be at the wedding, of course, but he’s also one of Pansy’s best and oldest friends. I think maybe I’ll just ask her to have a word with Ron about it. She owes me anyway, or she will do once I get the forthcoming, absolutely fabulous hen-party extravaganza organised. 

Hang on, I really am getting ahead of myself, aren’t I! First things first. We haven’t even had a second date yet. Tomorrow morning is only a few hours away now, and then we’ll both be at work again. Oh gods, I hope it isn’t awkward! 

Note to self: Just thank him again for dinner and casually invite him to go for coffee during the break. That should do it. Not awkward at all. I hope. 

Stern note to self: Stop over-thinking everything! Go to sleep. Sweet dreams. ☺


	3. Together

Eleven months later

 

17 May 2009  
Sunday afternoon

 

As wedding days go, this one was as perfect as luck and all the matrimonial gods could make it. Spring had sprung, quite literally; flowering trees were in full bloom, pink and white blossoms everywhere, the air was mild, and the sun was shining in a cloudless, deep-blue sky. Birds were in full throat and filling the air with a glorious cacophony of song.

The handfasting had gone off without a hitch. And now the reception was in full swing. 

Standing off to one side and watching everyone dance, Hermione smiled as she reflected on the past half hour. It had been a most perfect ceremony. Well, except for a brief period when Ron had appeared to grow bored or distracted, gazing blankly at something that seemed to be over Pansy’s shoulder somewhere in the distance. A small but pointed nudge from Harry, his best man, and Ron had pulled himself together just in time to put the ring on his bride’s finger.

None of this had gone unnoticed, of course. Hermione had felt a smirk pull at the corners of her mouth and she fought in vain to stifle it. Glancing at the others in the wedding party, all of whom were standing to one side of the bride and groom or the other, every one of them was fighting the same smirk and losing. At one point, her gaze had rested on Draco, her boyfriend of eight months and one of the ushers, and he’d grinned at her. All of a sudden, the laughter bubbling treacherously in her chest had turned to something else entirely: a lovely, warm spot that grew and grew, turning the smirk into a fond, secret smile just for him.

And then there was the moment well before the ceremony, when she’d emerged from the bridal changing room in her long, heavy, silk gown. It was a bit over the top for Hermione’s taste, never mind that it was that dreadful puce colour that made everyone look unnaturally pale and sickly. Strapless, the bodice was snug and fitted, and then the gown ballooned out into miles of floor-length skirt complete with a revealing slit that went clear up to the top of the thigh, topped by a gigantic bow and ruffle. Not only was it difficult to move in gracefully (or at all, for that matter!), it was definitely meant for someone a good deal taller than Hermione. 

“I look like a bloody great toadstool!” she’d muttered, upon stepping into the gown earlier that day when all the girls were getting dressed. 

“No more than the rest of us do!” Ginny had called from the other side of the room, where she was struggling to work the zip up the back. “Somebody give me a hand, please! I can’t get this thing to zip up!”

A quick swish of Hermione’s wand and Ginny’s problem was solved. ‘Wish I could do something about this wretched dress as well,’ she’d thought grumpily, fastening the back of one earring and then putting its twin on her other ear. Slipping on a delicate diamond bracelet to match the earrings, she had stepped back from the mirror, giving herself a carefully appraising look.

Make-up: check. It looked perfect.

Hair: check. Her French twist looked wonderful as well, not a hair out of place. And wearing it swept up this way brought out the slenderness of her neck and shoulders.

Slipping into matching shoes (leave it to Pansy to actually find a shop that sold dressy pumps in puce!), she’d taken one final glance and trailed off behind the other girls, as they left the bridal room and headed downstairs for pre-wedding photos.

Last down the long, winding, marble staircase, Hermione had paused and surveyed the landing below. There at the bottom, waiting for her, was Draco, looking especially handsome today in his smart, black suit and finely tailored dress robes. And just then, judging from the expression on his face, he’d had eyes only for her, puce gown or no. In fact, he’d looked at her as if she were the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

Slowly, she’d descended the stairs, arriving at last at the bottom, where he’d taken her hand. She’d smiled shyly, a pleased flush pinking her cheeks.

“You were warned,” she’d laughed, to cover her embarrassment, because he still hadn’t stopped staring.

“Granger, you look amazing,” Draco had murmured, dropping his gaze to take in the creamy décolletage and smooth, bare shoulders, the long, elegant neck. “Good enough to eat. What do you call this colour again?”

“Puce.” She’d wrinkled her nose delicately at the very word.

“Dreadful name. Doesn’t do it or you the slightest justice, you know,” he’d replied in a low, thrilling near-whisper, leaning in closer and bending a bit. His lips had been very near her ear now, his warm breath tickling her neck. 

His gaze had dropped even further now, lighting on the exposed skin of her upper thigh. His eyes had widened, an appreciative and decidedly wolfish smile curling his mouth upwards. 

“Well, well, what have we here?” he’d chuckled.

“A bit too much of me, that’s what!” Hermione had retorted. “I can’t believe Pansy picked this gown for all of us. What a terrible choice!”

“Probably wanted to make herself look even better,” he’d remarked offhandedly, and Hermione had shot him a wry grin.

“A speculation along those lines has been floated for some months now,” she’d told him. “The general consensus is that it’s probably true.”

“Of course it’s true. We may be eleven years out of school, but once a Slytherin, always a Slytherin. Well, in some things, anyway.” He’d glanced about the room, where the other bridesmaids and groomsmen were chatting while the photographer got his equipment ready. “Poor Millie Bulstrode. She looks like a stuffed blood sausage in that frock.”

“Oh, that’s so mean!” Hermione had exclaimed, but she couldn’t help laughing just a little. His description had been dead on. 

Now, the reception in full swing, she was happy to take a breather from dancing while Draco was off getting the two of them a drink. It had been a wonderful, joyous celebration so far and promised to continue on that natural high for several hours more. She was happy for her friends, who had found each other despite the unlikelihood of such a union. And Pansy truly was a friend now, had been for some time, even before Hermione and Draco had got together. Once they had, Pansy had confessed that she’d thought for a long time that the two of them had potential. Now, of course, she was insufferably smug about her prediction coming true, but Hermione didn’t mind at all. 

Even Ron was mostly okay with the thought of her and Draco together. The two men had finally relinquished their differences; they only seemed to surface now and again in friendly competition on the Quidditch pitch, on the occasional weekend afternoon. Ron had delivered the obligatory stern and rather annoyingly paternalistic warning to Draco, Hermione noted with some chagrin, and then, having done his duty as both an ex and a friend, he had backed off. It hadn’t hurt that the love of his life was Draco’s close, childhood friend. Hermione silently thanked Pansy for whatever rational intervention she’d exercised in influencing Ron to be more accepting. Much as Ron meant the world to her as a friend, Draco meant so much more. There would be no contest if push came to shove, and she was just grateful that it never would now.

Still lost in thought, she was startled when a familiar voice was suddenly close to her ear.

“Earth to Granger.” There was laughter in his voice. “You look very far away indeed.”

Smiling, she turned to look over her shoulder at his soft, grey eyes, crinkled in amusement. “I’m right here, I promise. Just enjoying the music and the dancing – talking of which, I know dancing in public isn’t exactly your favourite thing, but I hope we’ll have at least few more dances before the afternoon is over.”

“Au contraire, darling. I would dance with you anywhere, anytime. Even with two rather tall drinks in hand. Easily done. Shall I show you, then?” Balancing both drinks precariously in one hand, he made to pull her onto the dance floor.

“No, no!” she sputtered, giggling. “Not necessary. I would like that drink now, though!”

Sipping their drinks, they kicked back and simply watched the proceedings for a while. For Hermione in particular, it was lovely just to relax and enjoy the party finally, after so many weeks – months, really – of planning for this day. At last, though, Draco took her arm, drawing her onto the dance floor for a romantic, slow dance.

The music welled up around them and they began to dance, holding each other close. Hermione could feel his cheek against her hair, which by now she’d released from its sleek French knot, letting it fall freely to her shoulders. 

“Nice, isn’t this,” he murmured. “I’m pretending we’re the only ones here.”

“Impressive imagination, Malfoy.” Chuckling, she pulled him closer, breathing in the very pleasant scent of his dinner jacket and shirt, and, well… _him_. “There are only two hundred people here at the moment, and one of them just stepped on my foot.”

“Such a nice little foot too. We can’t have that, now can we?” With a skilfully executed turn, he moved them away from the people closest to them on the floor and drew her head down to his chest.

That delicious scent of his was stronger now, but there was something else, something she hadn’t noticed earlier – a small, square object presumably in the inside pocket of his jacket (where had it come from?) – and now it was pressing rather uncomfortably against her cheek. 

“What’s this?” she asked, pressing the tip of one finger against the lump.

“Oh, that? Nothing important. Nothing at all,” he replied straight-faced, but there was a wicked glint in his eye. By now, they’d stopped dancing and stood quite still, other guests still swirling around them.

“Nothing at all, is it? Well, then, you won’t mind if I just…” Quickly, Hermione slipped a hand inside his jacket, pulling out a small black box. 

She looked up at Draco sharply, eyes wide.

“Open it,” he said softly, a smile lighting his eyes.

With her heart suddenly going haywire, Hermione opened the box. Inside, there was a ring, and it was something very special indeed. A cluster of tiny diamonds surrounded a larger, pear-shaped one in a platinum setting, every one a marvel of exquisite perfection. As Hermione stared, each brilliant facet caught the candlelight and sparkled with all the colours of the rainbow. It was truly breathtaking.

“Oh…” she breathed. “Oh my…”

And now, as far as both were concerned, they truly were the only ones on the dance floor. Everyone else had evaporated in that one, incredible moment when the world stood still. 

“Will you have me, Hermione? Will you share your life with me?” Draco’s gaze was locked on hers, all the love he felt for her shining in his eyes and infusing his words. His voice trembled a little bit, and nervously, he steadied himself and waited for her reply.

As for Hermione, happy tears had threatened the moment she’d opened the box. Now they fell in earnest. Laughing shakily, she wiped them away and beamed up at him, nodding, and he pulled her close for a long, deep, celebratory kiss.

No more words were said for a time, at least not between them, though there were a few catcalls and teasing cries of “Get a room!” The ring was on her finger now for everyone to see, and see they did. A happy commotion ensued, with all their friends gathering around them as the news spread through the room.

Later, all the girls piled into the ladies’ for a quick make-up and hair check, and of course, Hermione was in the middle of all of it. Even the bride didn’t mind not being the centre of attention for once. She’d given Hermione the biggest, most relieved hug of all.

Now, with her friends around her, Hermione regarded them all and reflected. She’d been in a number of their weddings: Ginny’s, Luna’s, Lavender’s, Susan Bones’, Parvati’s, and now Pansy’s. She would be the last in their circle of friends to get married, and in her mind’s eye, she could see every single bridesmaid dress she’d worn over the last several years. Now she pictured her friends, each wearing that particular bridesmaid gown and standing up for _her._

Her turn, at last. Her wedding. And it would be the best of all, more than worth waiting for, because it was Draco.

With a huge, happy smile, she turned to her friends. “Come on, ladies. Let’s party!”

  
  
  


FIN

  
  
  
  


  
[](http://s136.photobucket.com/user/miriamele3/media/Dramione%20fic%20pics/puce-dress.jpg.html)  
Hermione's puce bridesmaid gown

**Author's Note:**

> This story was written for Hawthorn & Vine's "If the Prompt Fits" fest of February 2017. My fic combines two prompts: #294 Hermione Granger sits at a table, waiting for her blind date. Draco Malfoy, a fellow Ministry worker who has developed an interest in a certain curly-haired witch over the past couple of years, seizes an opportunity. #293 Hermione – a deep-down romantic, dedicated friend, and to-the-tee planner – grows tired of always being a bridesmaid at all her friends' weddings. When she learns that she'll be a bridesmaid at yet another friend's wedding, she wonders: when will it be her turn to find the man she'll be walking down the aisle toward? (Plot is a la movie "27 Dresses.")
> 
> Thanks so much to my wonderful beta and friend, mister_otter! *Hugs, Carol!*


End file.
